Agatha went slowly downstairs, and ate no breakfast. She went into the garden after breakfast, and tried to do wonders with a small bed of asters; but her heart was in nothing, and when she came indoors about half-past one and changed her morning frock, and made herself very pretty for luncheon, it was with a shrinking heart, as she thought of meeting Aunt Hilda again.

But Aunt Hilda refused to appear—which perhaps frightened Agatha more than all that had gone before. For Mrs. Greatorex to miss her luncheon meant that she was really offended. Agatha got through the sad little meal as quickly as possible, and then, snatching her hat from the stand, told herself she would go for a long, long afternoon upon the bank of the river. The Rickton river was about half a mile from the town, and there were charming little bits about it, good enough to satisfy the souls of most.

As she reached the hall door, however, the maid threw it open, and the Rev. Thomas Blount stepped in. Agatha could have hated almost anybody else for his intrusion at this moment, but Blount, somehow, always had a kindly boyish air about him that put an end to criticism.

"Oh, you, Mr. Blount!" said she, as if greatly pleased, and she took him into the small drawing-room, and sat down to entertain him right royally. Poor thing! With her heart as heavy as lead.

She was delightful to him for five minutes, and then she felt the strain was very great. It suddenly occurred to her that there were some engravings hung in the little antechamber, where she had so often—she shuddered now at the remembrance of it—so often had to stand tÊte À tÊte with Dr. Darkham whilst he gave her instructions about her aunt's treatment.

Would Mr. Blount like to see these old prints? She had heard they were valuable. Mr. Blount said he would like to see them very much, and she led him into the little chamber. He and she were standing on the threshold of it, however, when the opening of the drawing-room door beyond caught Agatha's ear.

"Some visitors, I am afraid, Mr. Blount," she said gently.

"Forgive me for a moment. You can see the pictures there"— pointing to them—"for yourself."

"Pray don't think of me," said Blount. "I shall give my whole attention to these."

But did he? Agatha had gone back to the drawing-room to find Elfrida rushing towards her.

"Isn't it beautiful?" cried that small person, precipitating herself upon Agatha's neck. "Isn't it all it ought to be?" She surrendered Agatha's neck here, and stood back from her, looking at her in, evidently, brilliant spirits, and the latest Parisian gown. "I'm going to be a bona-fide countess! A real live one, too. You may put anything you like on that. Lively shall be the word for me. If he thinks he's going to keep me down, and—Oh, Mr. Blount! You here!"

Blount did not answer her; words, indeed, were beyond him. So it was all over!

"I think I'll come and see your engravings some other day, Miss Nesbitt," said he, as calmly as possible, though it went to Agatha's heart to see the expression in his kind young eyes. "You and Miss Firs-Robinson must have a good deal to say to each other."

He turned to Elfrida. "You see I heard," said he gravely.

"Yes." Elfrida held out her hand to him in farewell. Agatha had not made even an attempt at detaining him, the situation seemed so full of briers. "And won't you—-"

"No, I do not congratulate you," said he steadily.

When he had gone, Agatha said quickly, "It is not true!"

"It is, indeed. He proposed to me yesterday just before he left, and I accepted him."

Agatha turned away from her.

"I thought better of you," she said.

"Now, that is always what puzzles me," said Elfrida, not in the least offended by Agatha's ungracious reception of her news, but with the air of one prepared to argue the question calmly, even to the death. "Why should people always think better of me? I don't see how I can be better. What's the matter with me?"

Agatha looked at her sadly. Her own dull, miserable story was before her.

How could a girl willingly sell herself for title, or money, or position, or anything? And Elfrida, who was rich, who could defy the world, she to sell herself to that detestable man, for the sake of hearing herself called Lady Ambert! In her present mood it seemed hateful—unnatural—to Agatha. Oh, how gladly would she give herself for love—love only!

"There is nothing the matter with you," said she—- "nothing. I won't believe there is. I won't believe, either, that you will marry Lord Ambert."

"I expect I shall, however. And why not? Auntie is quite delighted about it. Just fancy, she will be Ambert's 'auntie' very shortly!"

"Your aunt is naturally ambitious for you," Agatha said; "but you —you—-"

"Well, I—- I"—mimicking her gaily—"what of me? Do you think I can't see the glitter of diamonds as well as any one else?— and I hear the Ambert diamonds are beyond praise."

"What are diamonds to you, who have so much money? Why, you could buy them for yourself."

"Well, that's what I'm doing. I am buying them. Now, don't tell me I am not following your advice, after all." She spoke mockingly.

"If you took my advice, you would see very little glitter in Lord Ambert's diamonds."

"See here!" said Elfrida steadily; "it's no use your taking it like that. I know exactly how you feel about it, but, then, I am not you."

"But surely your father never intended—-"

"Yes, he did; and I admire him for it. He said to himself, "What is the good of my girl having all that money if she doesn't gain something by it?" Remember how hard my grandfather had worked for it, and they had their ambition, you see—it was to make me a lady! I'm afraid they've failed there," said Elfrida, with a sudden laugh. "But, at all events, I shall be a lady in another sense. I shall be Lady Ambert!"

"I don't know how you can look at it like that. The throwing away of your whole life's happiness—-"

"Don't you? Ah! but you see, you have not been educated as I was. Why, only look at the name! They evidently gave it to me at my baptism with a view of my living up to it. Elfrida! quite early English! It speaks of centuries of dead and gone ancestors of illustrious origin, who, I hope, didn't sell soap."

"I don't believe you care," said Agatha reproachfully, who, however, was now laughing in spite of herself. "To make a jest of everything as you do—-"

"Argues that I have no heart; and a good thing, too. Auntie sometimes calls me Frid, an extra petting of my pet name Frida. But really it should be Friv. I don't seem to care about anything, and I seldom think. I don't allow myself. It brings wrinkles—as I read the other day in one of those ladies' papers. Well, I must be going. You are the first person I have told of my engagement, but you needn't flatter yourself you are the only person who knows it by this."

"Your aunt will, I suppose, publish it abroad!" said Agatha sadly.

"No. Lord Ambert will. He seemed very flatteringly anxious to clinch the nail. I expect he has more debts than he knows what to do with."

"But, Frida"—anxiously—"I hope you will take care that he does not make away with all your money."

"You bet!" said Elfrida, who really, perhaps, ought to have been behind that counter; "that's all right. I shall help him to clear the mortgages, of course, by degrees, but without touching a penny of my principal."

She seemed "all there."

"Oh, there's one thing," said she, trifling with the handle of the door: "I am sorry I told you of my engagement before Mr. Blount."

"I am not," said Agatha bluntly, a little sternly indeed. "I am glad he knows. You would never have told him until the last moment if you had had your own way." If she had thought to overwhelm Elfrida by this harsh judgement, or reduce her to a sense of shame, she found herself mistaken.

"You're a witch!" said that naughty little person, with a gay grimace. "I think I seldom met so nice a—a friend as Mr. Blount. What a pity I must lose him now!"

"You have Lord Ambert instead," said Agatha coldly. In her heart she loved Elfrida, but she was angry with her now.

"Ah, true, true!" cried the culprit gaily. She ran down the steps to where her ponies were waiting for her. Agatha, though angry, followed her. It hurt her to be offended with the pretty charming, lovable little creature, who was so wilfully making hay of her life; she even went down the steps and, without looking at Elfrida tucked the light rug round her.

Elfrida smiled, picked up the reins, and took the whip out of it socket. The ponies sprang forward. Suddenly she checked them.

"Agatha!" she called. Agatha looked up. "After all, I was wrong.... I have a heart.... if only for you!"

The little fair, merry face was pale now, and tears lay heavily within her blue eyes. Agatha, startled, gazed at her, but there was no time for more. The ponies where trotting up the tiny avenue, and Elfrida did not look back.